I’m sitting outside.
I’m in a tank top and shorts.
I love Spain. I always say I miss the sun, but I forget what that really means until I’m surrounded by it again. The warmth seeps into my bones, the views lift my spirits, and my fibro pain lessens. It feels like we’re a world away from everything, couched in our own Spanish sunrise bubble. Even my migraine went away overnight, and as I sat with an ice pack on my head outside at five thirty in the morning, I stared at the stars, cuddled a cat, and thought how amazing life can be.
The ability to teach a writing retreat here is such a gift. The owners are lovely people, the people attending the retreat are like creative sponges, and we’re managing to do our own writing too. I fully understand why Hemingway spent so much time here.
I am feeling so deeply, almost desperately grateful for being able to live this way. And when we get back to England after yet another big trip, I’ll appreciate the cuddly sweaters, what’s left of the autumn colours, and the turn toward winter.